The Ferny Places Gleam At Morn, The Dew Drips Off The Leaves Of Corn; Along The Brook A Mist Of White Fades As A Kiss On Lips Of Light; For, Lo! The Poet With His Pipe Finds All These Melodies Are Ripe! Far Up Within The Cadenced June Floats, Silver-Winged, A Living Tune That Winds Within The Morning'S Chime And Sets The Earth And Sky To Rhyme; For, Lo! The Poet, Absent Long, Breathes The First Raptures Of His Song! Across The Clover-Blossoms, Wet, With Dainty Clumps Of Violet, And Wild Red Roses In Her Hair, There Comes A Little Maiden Fair. I Cannot More Of June Rehearse-- She Is The Ending Of My Verse. Ah, Nay! For Through Perpetual Days Of Summer Gold And Filmy Haze, When Autumn Dies In Winter'S Sleet, I Yet Will See Those Dew-Washed Feet, And O'Er The Tracts Of Life And Time They Make The Cadence For My Rhyme.